


On Empty

by gwyllion



Category: Brokeback Mountain (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyllion/pseuds/gwyllion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last Author Standing Prompt: Your character finds out he has a twin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Empty

Ennis Del Mar patted his shirt pocket, nicotine fingers feeling for his smokes. He pulled the crumpled pack from the plaid and pinched the cellophane, eyes squinting, showing the strain of forty some years without corrective lenses. He dropped the weightless pack on the bar.

He took another swig of his beer, the cheap taste lingering on his tongue.

The haze above the bar dissipated when the door opened to admit a new patron, the burnt air rushing out and the cold night pouring in, filling the void temporarily.

Ennis fidgeted with the crinkled package.

“Shit,” he muttered, realizing no cylinder of tobacco was going to appear.

“Over there,” said the bartender, motioning toward the cigarette machine in the corner by the jukebox. He dropped the lid shut on the ice dispenser, the stalactite shards tinkling into the bin.

Ennis looked in the direction the bartender had pointed. He pushed his barstool away from the counter by pressing a worn boot against the wooden paneling. When Emmylou had finished crooning about what lay beneath still waters, Ennis shuffled across the linoleum, keeping his head down, not wanting to draw attention. He carved his way, threading between the cowboys and gals who looked up from their partner’s shoulders. Their eyes metered out compassion toward the lonely cowboy, his jaw clenched tight, dark eyes averted from those who mustered the courage to take the dance floor.

No shoulder brushed against him. No hands touched his own. No sweet partner swayed to the music and whispered the promises of a better idea. The dreams of singing bluebirds and a whiskey spring were long gone, turned to ash and buried like the lover who had dreamed them. Ennis helped bury the dream, shot it down every time until the offer for a future no longer adorned the table. Hiding among the vacant streets of Riverton would have to suffice for him, from now until the day he died.

Ennis reached into his pocket, the frayed denim giving way to his hand. He fished around for coins. Counted out six dirty quarters and began to push them into the slot. Each coin jangled through the gears, metal on metal, machinery summing the value before allowing the quarter to clank into the bottom of the cavernous hopper.

He stooped down to grip the knob. The red and white package in his sights, the imitation crystal sticky under his fingers, he pulled the knob toward him. Levers moved, but the rod wouldn’t release the pack of Marlboros.

Squatting beside the machine, Ennis rapped his knuckles against the mirrored side. It was then that he noticed him, the other cowboy’s reflection clear in the chrome.

He must have arrived while Ennis walked the solitary path between the dancers. A tall lean wrangler, sandy hair curling at the nape, he could have been Ennis’s twin.

Both cowboys wore the faded denim jeans of a man who spent long hours working on a ranch. Dusty boots with nicked heels that had seen more calf shit than saddle soap. Their plaid shirts, loose-buttoned and washed thin in some places, pulled tight over taut skin where a man’s muscle had outgrown gangly boyishness.

Ennis stared at the reflection, not daring to turn around, not daring to see without the veiled excuse of the reflective cigarette machine for his accidental observation. He tilted his head to get a better look at the stranger from beneath the brim of his Stetson.

“Damn,” Ennis said, his teeth grinding together, only his lips moving to let the word escape.

He wore the same clothes as Ennis, from hat to boots. The same handful of freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose and splattered onto his tanned cheeks. He bore the same dark eyes that lit up when he flashed an easy smile to the man who stood with him while they sipped whiskey from the heavy glasses the bartender had placed in front of them. Although Ennis couldn’t see who accompanied his likeness, he watched as the man, this other Ennis, touched his palm to the partner’s elbow, emphasizing a point made in their conversation, or perhaps offering a whispered word about their plans for the rest of the evening.

The Ennis-twin gave the man’s elbow a gentle squeeze, let his fingers play across the fabric, the same lust fingers that might later be shoved inside the man, making him moan, the headboard banging out their rhythm against a bedroom wall.

Ennis slapped the machine again, the pounding only adding to the frustrated recollection of the past. The familiar sound echoed in Ennis’s memory of the time spent with Jack, way out in the middle of nowhere. Trees stood as silent sentinels, breathing in the wind while the men made love. The noise of their laughter rang hollow in the uninhabited wilds, never to be heard inside their home, never to be shared with the others who were dear to them, their family, or strangers in a bar.

The Ennis-twin was different than Ennis himself, although they looked so identical that no friend could tell them apart.

This different Ennis had no fear of the tire iron or the prying eyes of neighbors that might do him harm. This Ennis wasn’t afraid to live his life. This Ennis hadn’t seen the battered body in the irrigation ditch. He hadn’t smelled the sun-burnt skin or heard the buzz of flies laying their eggs in the drying blood, empty sockets staring at the Wyoming sky. This man wasn’t Ennis. And Ennis could never be this man.

The cigarette pack landed in the tray with a soft thud.

Ennis snatched it from the dispenser, his ragged nails scraping against the metal. Without a backward glance, he got into his truck and cried.

**Author's Note:**

> On Empty was written for Last Author Standing - 2011, which I won in the category of "Movies."


End file.
